


with my own blood in my mouth

by fideliter



Category: Fallout (Video Games), Fallout 4
Genre: F/M, Light Angst, Makeup Sex, WHY CAN'T WE ROMANCE DEACON.........
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-23
Updated: 2015-11-23
Packaged: 2018-05-03 02:51:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,508
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5273738
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fideliter/pseuds/fideliter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She presses, just a little, against the inside of his wrists before lacing their fingers together, leaning forward to press her mouth to his. He lets her, melts into her touch, and it feels like coming home.</p>
            </blockquote>





	with my own blood in my mouth

**Author's Note:**

> written for the [kinkmeme](http://falloutkinkmeme.livejournal.com/6099.html?thread=15726803#t15726803)!

She sucks in a deep breath, lingering just outside the door. It's musty down here, stinks like dirty water and dampness, but she pays it no mind. The dog whines at her side, bumping his nose into her leg. He isn't used to this sudden idleness, and she isn't either; her muscles pull at her, brain trying to kick into _fight or flight._ But... despite her hesitance, postponing this meeting wouldn't help matters, or make it any easier, so Georgia steels herself and ducks under the arch, pushing open the heavy door.

It's her first time in HQ since... _since._ She hasn't seen him since he told him his wife had been murdered and she had _laughed_ ; she hasn't seen him since she accused him of lying, refusing to believe that he was telling the truth. But his hurt, his departure, had been all too real. It's been two weeks since then, and that was _more_ than enough time to mull it over. To realize her mistake.

And she wanted nothing more than to fix it. Or, _well_ , try to.

HQ was busy, as always; the hustle and bustle filling the warm bricked corners with white noise. Dogmeat lets out a happy bark and makes a beeline straight for Tom, who seems equally delighted. She smiles at the sight, despite herself, before making her way to the table in the center of the room. Desdemona barely looks up from where she's busy marking supply routes, obviously far too busy for this conversation. That doesn't stop her from stepping forward, though, clearing her throat.

"Whisper," Des greets, reaching for another map marker, placing it on the table with care. "Welcome back. Is there something I can help you with?"

"Actually, there is." Georgia's voice is tense, tight; she glances around at the other agents gathered, hoping to catch the sight of sunglasses. But she sees nothing, and so she looks back to Des. "Have you... seen Deacon?"

At that, Des actually looks up, pulls away from the map for a brief moment. Her features flutter in surprise, before they harden ever so slightly, before shaking her head. "I thought he was with you." Ever since Whisper had joined the Railroad, more often than not, Deacon was out traveling with her.

Guilt rises in her throat like bile as she shakes her head. "We split up a few weeks ago, and I was hoping he'd be back by now." She explains, knowing that Des will see through the vague explanation easily. But it's easier than the truth ( _he told me the truth and I laughed at him)_ , so Georgia smiles, pulling away before Des can ask her much more. Busies herself with trading supplies with Tom, who asks questions of an entirely different manner. He's easy to talk to, though, has always been - they discuss cameras and Institute spies until she's yawning, the dog already snoozing across her feet.

She spends the night at HQ, and has never felt quite so alone.

\----

The next morning, she sets out.

Deacon is, unsurprisingly, hard to find. Almost impossible, and she's willing to bet that it'd be easier to find the _Institute_ than Deacon. She visits the obvious spots first: Diamond City, HQ, Ticonderoga, and a few of the safe houses in the area. She turns up empty-handed at every turn, with no one having heard from Deacon in awhile. It's unsurprising and disheartening, but not unexpected.

So she continues. Beats the cracked pavement from here to Sanctuary, travels the roads with only the dog at her side. With every settlement she ducks into, she keeps her eyes peeled for Deacon - despite not knowing what he'd look like. The sunglasses usually stay, though, so that's what she looks for.

All the while she worries her lip and the ring on a chain around her neck, and thinks about how _wounded_ he looked when he left.

\----

When Georgia finally finds him, she freezes. She's been through so much since waking up on that October morning, and yet _this_ is the thing that gives her pause, that makes her hands shake. Her mouth opens but nothing comes out, not yet. Fortunately, no one else in the smoky bar seems to have noticed her, them; everyone else is focused on drinking and talking, and not on the two people in the corner.

"Deacon," she tries again, voice cracking just a bit around his name. He looks up at the sound of his name (or maybe it's her voice), and he doesn't look surprised to see her. Maybe he isn't. Maybe he saw her coming from miles away, maybe he's been sitting here - waiting for her to finally show up. It's a good sign, she thinks, that he hasn't bolted yet - that he hadn't left before she even arrived. She takes a small step forward, hands clenching into fists at her sides. She wants to reach out, rest a hand on his shoulder, but -

She stops herself, not wanting to force herself on him. She doesn't know, _can't_ know, what she's put him through; she cannot imagine how it must have felt, to open up to someone (probably for the first time), and have them throw it back in their face. Deacon's track record with the truth has never been _good_ , but this.... this was different. She feels horrible, _has_ felt horrible ever since he walked away, but looking at him now makes that feeling expand tenfold.

"Hey, Whisper," he greets, lips curving in a smile that isn't quite friendly. "Fancy meetin' you here." She almost winces at the sound of her name (not her _real_ name, but it's real enough), and after a moment she settles on the stool next to him. Careful not to brush up against him, she puts her hands on the bar top, staring at them as she speaks.

"I've been looking for you," she starts, fingernails digging into the grimy surface. It's easier to talk, to explain, if she doesn't look at him - if she doesn't have to face the way he's closed off from her. After everything, after all their time together, she had _ruined_ it. He was, _well_ , the best thing she had in this horrible world, and she can't quite look him in the eye anymore.

He's quiet for a long time after that. The radio fills the space between them, so does the clinking of glass and idle bar arguments. It's hard to focus on anything _but_ him, the way he keeps tensing his grip on the drink he's been nursing. A song passes and she finally turns to look at him, and she meets his eye. "Follow me," he murmurs as he pushes the glass away and stands up.

And she does.

\----

The night air is cold on her bare arms, but she follows him anyway. A few steps behind, giving him every opportunity to duck into an alleyway, to leave her behind. She wouldn't... she wouldn't blame him. But he doesn't. Just leads her to the ramshackle hotel, lets her into the room (which he _hopefully_ rented), before shutting the door behind him. Even here, she can still hear the crooning of a radio - maybe from one of the other rooms. Grateful for the white noise to mask their breathing, to cover the sound of her heart pounding in her chest as she steps towards him.

Her movements are slow, exaggerated; always giving him an out. It's how they did everything - and here is no different. Fingers drag down both his arms, fluttering over unevenly tanned skin. She presses, just a little, against the inside of his wrists before lacing their fingers together, leaning forward to press her mouth to his. He lets her, melts into her touch, and it feels like coming home.

"I'm sorry," she murmurs against his lips, in between kisses - the long, lingering kind. Georgia can feel it, the moment he tenses, and she pulls back before he can. Worrying her bottom lip between her teeth, she looks at him - brows furrowed with nothing but guilt and shame. A special sort of sympathy, and _god_ , she hopes he doesn't push her away.

He doesn't, at least not at first. "Listen - " he starts, voice rough, thick with something she doesn't recognize. "I didn't expect you to believe me." There's a sharpness in his voice that makes her pause, makes her heart _hurt_.

It's not the first time he's told her not to trust what people say ( _you can't trust everyone_ , scribbled onto a note in cramped handwriting that's still tucked away in her pack), and she nods. "I know," and she does, knows it all too well. "But, I believe you're still in my corner." Half of her is waiting for him to prove her wrong.

These last few weeks without him had been _hell_ , the Commonwealth feeling much smaller and _meaner_. It felt like it did when she first crawled out of the vault, and Georgia didn't - she _never_ wanted to feel like that again. She didn't have the words for it, though, and she squeezes his hands and hopes he understands.

Maybe he does, because he squeezes back, lets out a little huff of something that might have been laughter. "Yeah," he murmurs, taking a step closer to her. Raises his eyes to meet hers, tilts his head a little. "Yeah, guess I am."

And then he's kissing her.

\----

He backs her up against the door, and the flimsy piece of wood rattles a bit on its hinges. Her heart pounds in her chest as his mouth chases hers, hands coming to rest along her hips. It's unexpected but there's a desperation in the way he presses his mouth against hers, the way he slides his hands underneath her shirt.

She keens when his hand brushes against bare skin, goosebumps rising from the simple, fleeting touch. "Deacon," she groans against his lips, pressing closer and it's not quite close enough. She missed this - missed _him_ \- and she doesn't quite have the words to explain it. So instead one hand withdraws from his hold to trail up his chest, coming up to curl around the back of his neck. Fingernails drag lightly through the feather-soft hair there, because she knows he's always liked that. She's rewarded for the soft touches with a little groan as he arches his back, pressing himself closer against her.

She nips at his bottom lip, just a little, pining it between her teeth. He groans and she feels it rumble in his chest, letting him go with a quiet huff. "Deacon, hey." She murmurs, raising her other hand to curl against his cheek. He needs a shave, and she can feel the stubble there, and she tilts her head as she offers him a smile. Small, warm, jittery even as her blood _boils._ "Hey. Is this - okay?" She wants more - _she wants him_ \- but they've never done this, never got this far. Georgia tries to be careful, to always leave him an out, but with him pining her to the door, she can't think much farther than how it feels to have him pressing so close to her.

"Yeah, 'course," He murmurs, sounding a little winded - much like the way he sounds when she makes him run for it. She smiles, and he does too. He's tracing nonsense patterns on her hipbone, fingers trailing lightly over her skin, and she does much the same. and the moment is slow and warm, encompassing to the point that she feels the last few weeks melting away. Maybe.. maybe they would be okay, after all, if _this_ was any indication.

"C'mon," he rumbles as he grips her hips, fingers pressing into the skin there. It's a gentle movement, and she lets herself be pulled into the room. "There's a perfectly good bed, y'know." His voice cracks a little, and she knows he's trying to _play it cool_ , but it's hard. Georgia goes without a second thought, and lets herself be pressed against the threadbare mattress, pulling him down with her as she goes.

His outfit is more casual (easy to get on, easier to get off), but she's wearing her raider leathers. Together they unbuckle and unzip, until the armor falls away and they're both bare. She rakes her fingernails down his back, leaving angry red markings as he trails kisses down her chin, her neck, her chest. He lingers in the valley between her breasts, laving his tongue against her nipples. She keens, spine arching off the bed, as he continues downward, pressing his mouth along the length of her hip, her thighs. Teasing, pressing kisses everywhere _but_ where she _needs_ him.

Impatient and flushed, from more than just the heat, she pushes him back - flips their positions until he's the one with his back on the mattress. Her hair fans down around him, shielding both of them from the world outside this bed, outside this room. It's just _them_ \- it's _always_ just been them - and she smiles as she rakes her nails down his chest, shifting down on the bed until she's settled comfortably on his thighs.

He makes a little, startled noise when she licks him, base to tip. And the noise he chokes out when she swallows him down is downright _endearing_ , and she can't help but glance up as he continues to pant. She works him, sloppy but enthusiastic, listening as he continues to unravel - thready little moans that _could_ be her name. It's a beautiful thing to see him come undone, and she groans around a mouthful of him before pulling away with him from a _pop_.

She shifts from where she sits, kneeling on the bed with his thighs between hers. He cups her chin, leans forward to catch her lips in a kiss. They both groan when she sinks down, the stretch painful in a way that makes her nerves alight, a heady want for _more_ spilling from her mouth. His hands drop, one gripping her hip (pulling her into him as she rocks, meeting her thrust for thrust), the other settling in between her thighs. Brushes his fingers against her, circling her clit in time with her thrusts.

Neither of them lasts long, pressing bruising kisses and marks against each other.

\----

Sticky and sweaty and _sated_ , she curls up next to him, tucks her head underneath his chin. He makes a quiet noise, almost a purr as he completes the motion, curling around her easily. They settle easily into this, like they were meant for it; missing puzzle pieces slotting together. His hand finds hers and their fingers lace together and she squeezes, burying her face in his throat.

"I missed you," she murmurs into his skin, shifting to throw her leg over his thighs, curling a hand up underneath her chin.

"I'm not goin' anywhere else." She lifts her head up to look at him when he speaks, tilting her face slightly. There's a hopeful look between them, matching shy expressions, and a lazy kiss seals the deal. " _Promise._ "

**Author's Note:**

> i am a filthy, filthy sinner and i will fight bethesda in the desert. meet me in hell, todd howard, bc you have kinkshamed me for the last time.


End file.
